


You Should Stick Around

by intextrovert



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 03:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3963316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intextrovert/pseuds/intextrovert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time you visit Holly's hardly counts as a visit. It's more like hovering on her doorstep, sneak peeking into a light and orderly hallway while she grabs her car keys and a jacket.."<br/>(Five times Gail visit Holly's, showing a bit of the off-screen interactions and development of their friendship. Takes place from ep 409 to 501-ish.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**

_Has been posted to my account on FF.net before._

_I wrote this right after 501 had aired, as my headcanon of how much Gail has been at Holly's before 501, but i never got around to posting it. Random friendship/relationship fluff – five times Gail visit Holly's place. First part of the story is Gail's POV and then it switches over to Holly's._   
_Unbeta'd so you may pelt me with digital snowballs if the grammar is too hopeless. :)_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The first time you visit Holly's place hardly counts as a visit. It's more like hovering on her doorstep (her kind of fancy doorstep, belonging to a sort of fancy townhouse made of bricks, just far enough from downtown Toronto) sneak peeking into a light and orderly hallway while she grabs her car keys and a jacket before the two of you head out to a rather sketchy, industrial part of town that aside of factories also holds a place with batting cages, a large worn-down bowling alley and several squash courts.

Batting cages seems like the least obnoxious thing to do out of the three options presented to you, 'cause at least you get to hit something with a bat, but you've never been known for your stellar hand-eye coordination, so the fact that the night ends with Holly endlessly mocking your (lack of) skills while nursing your bruised ego with burgers at a nearby diner isn't a very big surprise. What surprises you though, is how much you laugh during the evening, and how Holly so very easily keeps up with your snarky way of making conversation.

She drops you off at Casa Peckstein-Diaz when the digital numbers on the display in her car reads 22:53, and as you unlock the door and step out of your boots you can't help but feel like something's different. Something has changed.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time you're at Holly's you end up staying the night. She'd picked you up at the hospital when you were still miserable and groggy from the remnants of oxycodone running through your veins, and after learning that both Chris and Dov was working that night she'd refused to let you stay at your place alone. Instead she takes left at the crossing where you always head right, and after a grilled cheese sandwich, a cup of tea and being handed an obnoxiously pink toohbrush (Holly claims that the neon-colored monstrosity is her only spare, but somehow you don't really believe her) you end up in her bed. You're wrapped up in a well-worn t-shirt, a warm duvet and the calming scent of Holly's sheets. She offers to sleep on the couch but you tell her she's being ridiculous. As she gets comfortable on the other side of the bed you warn her that you're known for hogging the covers.

You're insanely tired and groggy from the oxy but for some reason you have a hard time falling asleep. Instead you lay awake for a while, talking about nothing and everything before slowly drifting into oblivion.

You wake with a start the next morning, and you discover that you've shifted around during the night. Your arm is now firmly placed around Holly's waist. She's soft and warm. It's odd. You're usually never a clingy sleeper.

She is still asleep, and you take a moment to simply look at her peaceful form, her dark eyelashes and rosy cheeks. There's this softness about her that both calm you and make you nervous, and you still have that lingering feeling of something changing whenever you're around her. Like her caring yet strong persona is rubbing off on you somehow.

Slowly you retract your arm and brush back a stray lock of hair that has fallen over her face. A part of you, stuffed away deep down inside, is struck with an urge to keep touching her, to cuddle up closer, but you decide to put a lock on that specific jar of butterflies and drift back to sleep instead. The next time you wake up she's stirring too, and now her head is nestled into the crook of your neck. And you really don't want to think about how good her arm feels around your waist, or how you don't mind her yawning straight into your ear when she's on the verge of waking up and adorably unaware.

So you don't.

(But yeah, it feels good.)


	3. Chapter 3

The third time you're at Holly's she completely destroys you in video games. It's the evening the day after you and Dov supportively got hammered at Chris's insistence and your horrible hangover shows no signs of disappearing anytime soon. So instead of remaining on the couch complaining together with the equally miserable Chris and Dov you call Holly, who cheerfully invites you over to do the exact same thing on her couch instead. She even offers to supply you with food and cheese puffs to ease your pain, which makes the whole thing a no brainer.

When you arrive at her still kinda fancy doorstep you're only vaguely nauseous and she opens the door dressed in a knitted sweater, leggings and a pair of large woolen socks, knitted with the colors of the rainbow.

"Wow! Those are the gayest socks I've ever seen," you blurt out.

"Thanks," she smiles. "A friend gave them to me, she bought them while traveling in Nepal and figured they would suit me."

"You should wear them to work," you say because your thumping head aren't capable of coming up with a truly snarky comeback right now.

Holly laughs at you before stepping aside, inviting you in. You vaguely recognize the sound coming from her TV, but it's not until you've taken off your coat and actually walked into the living room slash kitchen that you understand why.

"Oh my god, you're such a nerd," you say as you lay eyes on the pause screen of Ocarina of Time.

"Tell me something I don't already know," Holly replies.

"I'm miserable and starving."

"Yeah, no, I know that. You told me on the phone, remember?"

After a large portion of chicken and noodle stir fry courtesy of your now undoubtedly nerdy new friend, the two of you end up on the couch where you are failing spectacularly at mocking Holly for her rather extensive collection of old Nintendo games. She takes every attempt of mocking in stride, smiling when tells you it's a habit from her years in med school when her usual pastime of reading became insufficient due to the amount of books she had to read for her studies.

"I simply couldn't read for fun during those years, so I brought my old game consoles to my dorm to have something to do take my mind off things, and I still play for fun sometimes when I have a lot on my mind," she explains.

You're about to say something snarky about her being too nerdy to use alcohol to cleanse her mind but you stop yourself. She will undoubtedly throw such a statement right back at you, you've already told her about the video game nights of the Peckstein-Diaz household. But you can't help but wonder what exactly is making her playing video games now. She always seems so calm and collected, not at all in need of cleansing her mind. But then again, you haven't known each other for very long, so you don't pry any further for a reason.

"Here, pick your poison," she says then and hands you a bunch of cartridges while proceeding to save her game. You look through the plastic pieces and pass one over to her.

"There simply is no choice, this is the greatest multiplayer game ever made," you say.

"Not gonna argue," Holly agrees.

Four tournaments later you're in the weirdest mood ever. On one hand you're pissed off at the fact that she's beaten you in every race but two, without cheating or shortcuts. On the other hand you're having too much fun to actually be mad at her.

"We should swap controllers, it's gotta be something wrong with mine" you demand, desperate to come up with a reason to salvage your dignity.

"Alright, but don't hate me when you fall off Rainbow Road. I gave you the better one from the start, just so you know," Holly says.

Another half-hour has passed when the blue gokart driven by a mushroom launches off the very same course and into cyberspace and you bury your head in the armrest, groaning.

"I hate you, this stupid controller and this stupid game!"

To her credit Holly actually pauses the game at your childish outburst instead of defiling towards the finish line.

"Told you I gave you the better controller," she says, patting your head in a mocking, yet comforting way.

"This is Chris's fault," you pout and when Holly gives you a confused look you explain "I'm always shit at video games when I'm hungover, and it's his fault that I'm hungover, so. And I want a rematch some other time, when I'm not inferior due to alcohol."

"Fine, you can have a rematch some other time," Holly agrees, reaching for the remote to switch back to the TV before she gets up and walks over to the kitchen. You hear rustling sounds from the kitchen, and the sound of the fridge opening and closing when Holly calls out, "Wanna watch a movie?"

"Yeah, why not," you shout back and put the faulty controller away, stretching out on her couch. She returns a minute or so later, plopping down next to you, placing a bowl of cheese puffs, two bottles of coke and a bad of MMs on the coffee table. The sight of the snacks has you sitting up straight, hand immediately grasping for the orange-tinted snacks.

"You, my friend, are definitely not as sucky as most other people are," you comment, sinking back into the couch while chewing loudly. Holly laughs in response, her laughter slowly fading into that trademark smirk. The way she looks at you has you pausing mid-chew, there's this intense spark in her eyes that you haven't really seen before, that for some reason makes you really nervous. It also has your brain flashbacking to the coatroom at Frank and Noelle's wedding, and the faintest of kisses.

"Was that Gail Peck paying me a compliment?"


	4. Chapter 4

The fourth time you're at Holly's you stumble through the door, clutching your stomach that's hurting from laughing too much. You'd been walking from The Penny back to her place, and Holly was so caught up in an explanation of something sciency (that you've already forgotten the name of) that she walked straight into a streetlight due to looking at you instead of the sidewalk ahead. It had been very abrupt, one second she was rambling and gesturing enthusiastically, her brown eyes glittering in the yellow light as she tried to explain some kind of chemical reaction. The next second she hit the lamp post with a groan as you walked past it unharmed. Luckily she didn't get hurt, but her confused pout combined with the way her glasses sat all askew had you laughing for the remaining three blocks to her house.

"Gail, seriously, stop laughing."

"You.. should.. have seen your face," you squeak in-between giggles as you kick off your boots.

"Nah, I'm good," she grumbles. "Do you want coffee?"

"Yeah," you nod as you walk past her and plop down on one of the bar stools by her kitchen island. "Please," you add as an afterthought.  
You watch her as she handles her spaceship-like coffee maker without hesitance. You refuse to go near the thing but you know from the other times you've been here that the coffee it makes is a gazillion times better than the stuff you have at work, or at home. Too bad it sounds like a Transformer throwing a rage-fit when it's grinding the beans.

It's nice, watching Holly in the kitchen. There's something very homey and safe about the way she moves, which is unsurprising since she lives here. What's surprising is how relaxed you feel while watching her, you rarely feel comfortable in other peoples homes.

Minutes later she brushes past you with two steaming mugs of coffee, heading for the couch.

Holly zaps through the channels until she finds an old rerun of Friends, and turns the volume down a little. She has pulled her legs up under her and thrown a blanket over her shoulders. You declined when she offered you one, stating that it was against your aversion towards fleece, completely ignoring the fact that both blankets in question are made of knitted wool, not fleece.

You take a sip of your coffee, feeling the warmth spread through your body, chasing away the vague tipsiness that remains from the drinks you had at The Penny. Holly isn't a regular customer there, but had told you she wanted to drop by and see what it was all about, so tonight she had.

Annoyingly enough, the only two persons from your ragtag group of friends that had been at the Penny tonight was Traci and Andy, and since you had no intentions of voluntarily spending time with McNally anytime in the near future, you and Holly had gotten a table of your own after a brief conversation.

Two officers you didn't know very well had asked you if you wanted to play pool and being a creature of habit more than really opposed to it, you refused, resorting to cheering on Holly and offering your very own brand of commentary when she beat them both with ease. One of the guys had been pretty good but it didn't help much since his friend was too busy checking out Holly to pay any real attention to the game.

You didn't feel like telling him he was completely out of luck regarding Holly, so you didn't. Instead you chose to watch amusedly as the poor guy made a chivalrous mess out of himself.

"You don't feel like switching teams do you?" you ask Holly.

"What?" she says, turning her head away from "The One With the Giant Poking Device".

"Switching teams? You must have noticed how that guy we played pool with tried to get your attention earlier,"

"No, nope, definitely not. Men are really not my thing. I've tried it, tried to like it, didn't work."

"Just checking," you say slowly, and before you know it you've asked another question.

"Soooo, speaking of, met any nice girls lately?"

You're not sure why you're asking – despite the fact that you and Holly have been hanging out quite a lot over the last month or so, and that one of your first conversations ever was about you cheating on Nick (even though you didn't say the words outright) you've never had any typical girl talks, or spoken much of relationships at all. Just short mentions of family and friends here and there.

Holly takes a sip of her coffee before answering, and you can't pinpoint it but the mood has quickly changed a little.

"No, not really no," she says, eyes darting between the tv, you and her coffee mug.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," you say.

"Don't be sorry."

There's something about the way she acts that makes you curious, and you have to force yourself to not pry anymore. So what if she's met someone, that's a good thing, right? You just feel weird because between work and hanging out with you and working out, when would Holly have the time to meet someone? And why hasn't she told you? Maybe it's someone at her gym.

"How about you? Any new medieval archers lurking in the garden?" she mocks right before the silence gets long enough to qualify as awkward.

"Uuugh, no!" you exclaim. "I don't care if Superintendent Mom thinks I will end up a lonely spinster, I'm never gonna go on any of her blind dates again," you say firmly.

"And Nick..?"

"Hell no, McNally can have him for all I care! That thing was a complete waste of time, it was doomed from the restart."

Your conversation soon drifts off to other topics but the changed mood stays put. It makes you uneasy, like something's itching under your skin and when you take the bus home you curse yourself for ever bringing up the topic.

You don't see much of Holly during the following week. You text a bit – that's been a habit pretty much since you first met – but there are no shared lunch breaks and none of the cases you get to work with requires you to interact with the forensics. Something got weird, and you suspect it's your fault. Problem is you don't really know how to fix it. Maybe she is seeing someone.

Several times you catch yourself writing random texts to her, that you delete instead of sending, doing nothing to quiet the weird, longing feeling inside that you desperately try to ignore.

You miss her. You don't want to, but you do.

The next time you meet her is at The Penny. And your suspicions were true – she's there with someone.

The itchy feeling under your skin gets so much worse.


	5. Chapter 5

The fifth time you're at Holly's you're a complete and utter mess made of bourbon and the unavoidable clash of your private and professional lives, but since she's the best person in the universe, Holly somehow knows exactly how to handle it. She calls you honey and slides down to sit next to you on the bathroom floor, and her simply being there makes it all feel a little better. You ask if you're freaking out and she nods calmly, doesn't ask any questions but wait for your reaction. You sit there, gasping for air like your lungs have shrunk to the size of raisins, with tears slowly streaming down your cheeks, drawing cool streaks on your flushed skin.

Holly slowly reaches over to take your hand in hers, but you spring to life before she has a chance to touch you, throwing yourself in her arms as reckless sobs rip through your body. Her soft sweater absorbs your tears and incoherent stuttering of concern about Oliver, Chloe and Sam and she whispers calming words in your ear.

After a while you just sit there, nestled halfway in her lap with your head buried in the crook of her neck and you're hit with this giant wave of gratitude and shame.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

She keeps running her fingers through your chopped off hair, it's soothing and makes you sleepy. You open your eyes and say it again, a little louder.

"Holly, I'm sorry."

Her hand stills and she shifts, trying to look at you but you just hide your face in the fluffy sweater.

"Hey, Gail, what are you sorry for?"

"The big gay distraction," you mumble, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. She starts playing with your hair again.

"It's okay, this has been a long and horrible day. I didn't think you meant anything.." she tries but you interrupt her.

"But it's not okay. You're important to me and maybe I would have liked to have this, us, to myself a little longer before throwing it out in the open but you can't always get what you want, and I really don't give a shit about what anyone else thinks and unless my brother has mentally morphed into my mother he's not gonna have a problem with it either and me calling it the big gay distraction turns it into something not normal when it really is. I like you, that's perfectly normal, right? Anyone who doesn't like you is the strange one because you're awesome and.. yeah."

Holly's hand has stilled again, somewhere in the middle of your rant. She doesn't say anything, so you lift your head off her shoulder to see if she's alright.

There's something defenseless in her eyes that wasn't there before, a wide-eyed amazement that makes your heart flutter.

"Holly..?"

"What? Yeah, umm.."

You giggle at the dazed expression on her face before you lean in and kiss her, sort of mirroring the way she kissed you at the wedding. Swift.

"So apparently me rambling is a good way to stop you from rambling? Or even speaking at all, huh?"

"Yeah.." Holly sighs, a dreamy tone in her voice. Then she shakes her head and looks at you more focused, taking a few of the longer strands of your hair and twirling them around her fingers.

"We should do something about your hair though."

You nod, and does as she says when she tells you to get in the bathtub.

"Make it short," you tell her, your eyes fluttering close when gentle hands brush through the blonde mess.

"Honey, I don't think anything else is an actual option," Holly says before she plants a soft kiss on the tip of your nose, making you scrunch your face, and then she starts cutting.

* * *

 

The hot water runs out eventually, you're both soaked and beginning to shiver, and as soon as Holly turns off the water the mood changes. One part of you wants to shed your wet clothes immediately, you hate how they cling to you, heavy and cold. Another part gets terrified because she's so close, and she's been kissing you so soft and intense that you nearly forgot how to stand up, and her skin was so warm and smooth when you sneaked your fingertips under the hem of her t-shirt, and if you're being completely honest with yourself there's nothing you want more right now than to keep touching Holly. Preferably without the wet cotton currently clinging to both of you.

But you hesitate, and instead of acting on the butterflies you just stand there, dumbly frozen and wet.

(Not like that. Yes like that, too. Whatever.)

Holly gathers her hair into a ponytail, wringing some of the water out of it, and you imitate her movements out of habit before you remember that your ponytail is gone. Instead you scratch your neck awkwardly, looking everywhere but right at her. You're unsure whether to get out of the tub and thus inevitably soaking Holly's bathroom floor in the process, or to stay put. You end up staying put, waiting for her to do something, anything, as you keep glancing at her shyly. For someone being fully dressed you feel awfully naked.

Holly obviously doesn't care about wetting the floor as she steps out of the tub a second later, walking over to the towel hanger and grabbing both of the towels there, wordlessly handing one of them over to you.

You have no idea whether you should just get out of your drenched clothes right here and now, or if one of you should give the other some privacy. Before you have any time to decide however, Holly pulls her t-shirt over her head, momentarily getting stuck on her glasses.

And you stop functioning.

It's like someone connected a soft electric current to your fingertips, they're tingling, and despite the fact that most of your body is shivering and cold you can feel how your face begins to burn. For someone a few years away from 30 you suddenly feel an awful lot like fifteen. You know the polite and sensible thing would be to look away, but you can't, you've forgotten how to. Because there's Holly, right in front of you, untangling herself from her t-shirt with a sheepish expression that lasts for the exact amount of seconds it takes for her to register your frozen state and how your face by all accounts are like an open book.

The only thought running through your brain is how badly you want to touch her, but you can't move, don't even blink.

It's old news that you want her, really. Almost every interaction between the two of you over the last 36 hours, over the last month or so if you're being completely honest with yourself, are a glaring sign highlighting that very same fact.

But you feel naked, although you're still dressed and your body temperature has gone from freezing to burning hot in about ten seconds.

Because there's Holly, her sheepish look now replaced with that adorable, adoring, confidently curious smirk as she deposits her dripping t-shirt in the sink before reaching out for a towel.

"You're gonna catch a cold if you're not careful," she says, still smirking, and you nod in reply while the frustration grows inside of you. One part of you is desperate for some kind of privacy, which is sort of uncharacteristic, but you don't give a shit about that now. Holly seems to be completely unabashed by the fact that she's currently only wearing jeans and a bra but you are most definitely not. And joining her in the club of semi undressed people feels scarier that it should.

A sudden feeling of "fuck it" washes over you, and you grab the hem of your shirt, trying to wrestle your way out of it. It's no easy feat, not with the way the wet cotton is clinging to your skin, the long sleeves and tight fit of the shirt an annoying hindrance. You know the look on your face once you drop the shirt in the bathtub is just as sheepish as Holly's was moments ago, maybe with a little bit more deer in the headlights added onto it. Looking at her is the scariest thing in the world, but once you lift your gaze you catch her swallowing thickly, her eyes wide and dark, and just like that the entire world is flushed with a sudden burst of heat again.

She stretches her hand out for you to hold while stepping out of the tub and you take it, but as much as you want to fall straight into her arms you keep your distance. The bourbon induced haze is gone, instead you're left with a feeling of clarity, an insight of how much Holly means to you, how much you want her, how much you want to get to know her and be around her. And that makes you hesitate.

You let go of her hand and grab the towel she gave you, awkwardly wrapping it around your shoulders.

"I'm gonna get you some dry clothes," she says then, giving you an out and padding out of the bathroom. She returns a minute later with sweatpants, a t-shirt and a pair of plain cotton panties before exiting again. Wearing her clothes is comfortable beyond belief, and your heart swells when you notice the obnoxiously pink toothbrush she gave you after the oxy incident is still in the glass on the sink, right next to hers.

* * *

 

You're devastatingly tired but you have all the time in the world. Holly's off tomorrow, and they have called in people from other divisions to cover shifts for a lot of the staff from 15, so despite the digital watch on Holly's bedside table showing the numbers 03:07 you're not in a rush to fall asleep. And neither is Holly. She's stretched out on her back in the middle of her ridiculously comfortable bed. Your hands are placed on each side of her shoulders and the look on her face as she's gazing up at you is enough to make your arms weak, threatening to make you collapse on top of her. But you don't, you refuse to let your scrawny arms betray you, 'cause that would be too embarrassing.

"Gail. You're thinking too much," she murmurs.

"You're one to talk nerd," you bite back. "When is your brain not racing a thousand miles a minute?"

"Not the point," she replies, stroking your lower lip with her thumb. It's like an ignition and your breath hitches, your arms almost giving in.

You hover over her for a few more seconds, still uncertain and unsure of yourself despite everything that's occurred over the last 36 hours or so. It's hard to believe that you were in your own bed last night, tossing and turning with a jealousy you were unprepared to handle. Then life threw a curveball, and here you are, inches away from the one person who has gotten under your skin without you even noticing how it happened.

"Gail.." Holly says again, moving her left hand to your waist, toying with the hem of the t-shirt she gave you earlier. You take a shaky breath, your arms are getting tired from holding you up, and you know your tongue darts out to wet your lips. It's a nervous habit, you do it without thinking, and you are beyond nervous now. You've already decided to not take it any further than making out tonight because honestly, the simple act of kissing and touching her is more than enough. Holly matters, she matters so painfully much to you, and you want to show her and that in itself is a strange emotion for someone whose regular modus operandi is to not care at all.

"You're kinda beautiful too," you blurt out, echoing her statement from the bathtub earlier before you lean in and kiss her so gently it's barely there before pulling back.

She gasps, and grabs hold of your upper arm, and you don't lose eye contact for even a second when you carefully shift above her so that you're straddling her right thigh.

And then you lose it, you give up, give in.

You seek out her warm lips with your own, carefully lowering yourself on top of Holly, and the way your bodies sinks into each other makes you wanna laugh and gasp and cry at the same time. Maybe you do one, or several of those things, you're not sure. All you know is that you're losing yourself in the best possible way – in her touch, her scent, how she flips you an the way her hair ends up everywhere and makes both of you giggle. Then her soft lips are burning a trail down your neck, her hands caressing you, bringing you in even closer.

You have no idea how long you kiss for, but when you finally drift off your legs are tangled, Holly's hand has snuck up under the back of your t-shirt and despite all the sad things that has happened lately you feel calm and safe.


	6. Chapter 6

The sixth time you're at Holly's occurs exactly seven minutes and forty-seven seconds after you left for the fifth time. And maybe it shouldn't even count as a separate occasion, but you really don't give a shit about that kind of semantics as you silently shut the front door behind you, shrug off your coat, kick off your boots and tiptoe back up the stairs and into her bedroom.

She looks exactly like when you left her, a tousled mop of dark hair spread over the pillows, and the vague outlines of her body under the thick duvet. The old fashioned alarm clock on her bedside table har been stuck on a quarter to midnight for weeks now, when you asked why she told you it's 'cause she never remembers to change the batteries. The digital one next to it says 08:02 and a pale ray of winter morning light forces its way in through a gap in the curtains.

You place the takeout coffee mugs next to the clocks and quickly pull off your jeans and the sweater you borrowed before you get back under the covers, warming your ice cold feet on Holly's warm ones. That, of course, makes her stir and mumble incoherently, her hand blindly searching for her glasses. You hand them to her, strangely amused by how not-together this newly awakened version of Holly is.

"Why are you so cold?" she mumbles into the pillow as she tries to avoid your still cold feet chasing hers under the duvet.

"I wanted coffee, and I had no idea how to work the spaceship you insist on calling a coffeemaker so I ran down to the place on the corner," you explain.

"You're the best," she says, a little less sleepily, and you reach out to push away the dark locks falling in her eyes.

"You're not too bad yourself, Lunchbox," you smile shyly before you scoot up to sit with your back against the headboard and handing her one of the mugs. She moves around, nudging you so she can curl up next to you, and you wrap your arm around her with a content sigh as you take a sip of your coffee.

The silence that settles in the room isn't uncomfortable, not at all, but you have a nagging need to tell her how much this means to you so you put your mug away and start playing with her hair, then continuing with drawing random patterns on her upper left arm.

"Thank you," you mumble. "For, you know, everything."

Holly takes a sip of her coffee before placing the mug next to yours on the table and shuffling around in bed so that she's sitting upright, facing you. She doesn't say anything. The way she looks at you speaks loud enough, and for the second time in less than a day, she apparently decides to bypass her sometimes incessant need to use more words than necessary.

No matter how adorable she is when she rambles, you're not complaining, not at all.

Not when she moves forward and straddles you, and her smooth legs grace your hips and waist. Not when she kisses you in that way you already have decided are distinctly her – deep and soft and utterly devastating in the most positive of ways.

You don't complain when you pull back, gasping for oxygen and her eyes are pinned on you, nearly black with desire. And most definitely not when you sneak your hand under the back of her t-shirt, gingerly tracing the contours of her spine. Her eyes flutter close then, hand grasping at your upper arms and you wonder whether she's aware of the way her hips just rocked into yours or the soft moan that escaped her lips.

What you know is that you've never been more aware of want than at that very moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next up: Holly's POV.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So.. I decided to write Holly's point of view as well, which means the story will be her POV from now on unless otherwise mentioned. (I added names to the chapters to make it easier.) I'll try to figure out how to write from inside Holly's head, which probably will mean longer chapters since she has a tendency to use long words and sentences. And although I have an outline (obviously), I haven't finished this part of the story so there might be a while between chapters.._  
>  Also, thanks for the favs, follows and lovely reviews, they made my day!
> 
> Without further ado, back to the batting cages.

"I told you I don't like sports. I'm leaving!" she giggles, the sound of her black combat boots on the concrete floor echoing in the old warehouse as she makes her way towards the entrance.

"Gail, come on! Wait!" you shout at her retreating form, trying hard to quell your laughter. You don't think she's upset, not really, but watching her walk away feels oddly alike a punch in the stomach anyway.

You're on the road to potential disaster, and you know it. Yet you keep going straight ahead, refusing to even think about the true reason behind your behavior. Regardless, there's something about this particularly snarky police officer that makes you so unreasonably unguarded. You're not that much of a people-person – you don't claim to hate them like Gail does, but you're the type of person who are kind to many but only truly befriends a few. And you haven't felt this much of an urge to get to know someone in a really long time.

And that's why you don't bother picking up the bat that Gail so graciously flung across the pitch. Instead you head after her, walking even though your feet feels like they would rather run. (Let's face it, running after her would look more than a little desperate, and would only give her another bunch of reasons to make fun of you. Not that you mind her being snarky and making fun of you, not at all, but it feels a bit unnecessary to hand her a bunch of reasons on a silver plate.)

She's standing by the reception desk in the entrance, hovering awkwardly and flipping through some pamphlets, like she doesn't know whether to go back in, stick around or take off entirely.

"Hey.." you say, suddenly unsure of how to continue.

"I hate being crap at things," she tells you bluntly, eyes glued to the pamphlets.

"That's okay."

She shuffles her feet on the concrete, drawing an invisible circle with her left foot.

"You don't have to be good at hitting balls with a bat, and you're allowed to hate both that and the fact that you're crap at it," you continue hesitantly.

That causes her to lift her head and look at you with a mixture of amusement and annoyance on her face.

"Oh god, you really are one of those caring, comforting types aren't you?" she says with a slight tone of pain in her voice.

"Yeah, sorry, can't help it," you say with a shrug and a smirk.

She straightens her back and gives you a defiant look.

"You gonna come back in? Ten more tries and I promise I'll buy you food after."

"Really?" she says, and you want to smile at the audible skepticism. "Aren't food supposed to be included in dates, like, without a list of requirements attached to it?"

You stare at her for a few seconds before your brain catches up.

"Excuse me, but  **you**  called me and told me you wanted to hang out – this is not a date, and if it were, you'd thereby be held accountable for the asking, which in the end means that  **you**  should buy  **me**  food. And this is not a date."

"Whoa, slow down, Lunchbox, I was kidding. But I'm not sure if burgers are worth the public humiliation."

"Right.." you say, and you sort of want to hide when you realize how small and dissappointed your voice got all of a sudden. The tide turned in a matter of seconds, and now you're the one being awkward with Gail all cocky instead, and you can't for the life of you figure out how to get the ball back in your court.

"But, since you are a much more adequate companion than the Sheriff of Nottingham, I shall abide to your wishes," Gail says then, in what might be the snottiest, most faux british accent ever heard on the North American continent. She sweeps by you with an intrigued look on her face and it takes you a good five seconds to catch up and follow her back to the cage. She's already in place, helmet and all, waiting for you to push the button.

"I swear to god this stupid thing is gonna kill me," she mutters, casting a spiteful look at the ball launcher and gripping the bat so hard that her knuckles whiten. But hey, that minimizes the chance of her throwing the bat again, right?

After treating her to the promised burger, with a side dish of teasing her for ending up throwing the bat another four times and only managing to hit the ball twice, you give her a ride back to the flat she shares with Diaz and Epstein. You're not even halfway to yours when your cell buzzes, and you have to talk sternly to yourself to keep from looking at it until you've parked outside your house.

**[Thanks for tonight. I had fun.]**

You can't help that you smile at that, and you can't help cursing the mix of cautiousness and excitement growing inside you either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random fact: I had no idea what a ball launcher was called, so I googled "that thing that shoots baseballs at people". Apparently I was not the first one to wonder, since I found the answer right away.


	8. Chapter 8

**[Gail: There's an elephant in the room, and McNally and Nick are being nasty.]**

Despite the many odd topics you and Gail have texted back and forth about over the last few weeks, this is by far the strangest text she's sent you, and not only because it's completely unrelated to the preceding topic of how stupid it is to bring people flowers that will wilt in a few days. (An opinion you both shared, which, for the record, didn't make the topic uninteresting. Gail has a lot to say about things she doesn't like or understand.)

**[Lunchbox: What does an elephant have to do with Nick and McNally? And is the elephant a physical presence or is it a metaphor? Should I worry?]**

You stare at the three moving dots, waiting for her reply.

**[Gail: Yes.]**

Great, she's being cryptical. You have a feeling that you will end up creating a short novel if you reply to her short message by text, so you hit the phone-button next to her number instead. For replying to your text so quickly, it sure takes her a long time to pick up the phone. Long enough for you to start fretting about whether you're calling at a bad time.

"Holly, we're friends, right?" she asks instead of a more traditional greeting.

"Yeah, I'd say so," you say, more than a little confused.

"Did you know that I'm not left handed?"

You actually have to think about that for a few seconds, rewinding to the time spent at the diner after your trip to the batting cages, and the thai place you went to for lunch a few days back. Her glass had been placed on her right side both times, and you're pretty sure you've seen her handle both phones and pens with her right hand.

"Now that you say it, I think I've gotten the impression that you're not."

"Exactly! And let me tell you, this stupid phone does not work well with my left hand," she says, sounding unsurprisingly annoyed at the fact.

"Right.. but why are you using your left hand then?"

She doesn't have a chance to answer before your brain kicks into another gear, the worrying one.

"Are you injured?! What happened? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, no, well there was this grow-op, and I got chemicals on my wrist and McNally took me to the hospital and I'm fine. But now there's an elephant in the room and they won't let me leave 'cause the painkillers makes everything a bit fuzzy. Can you please come and get me?"

As soon as she mentions the painkillers the dazed tone of her voice makes perfect sense. The elephant, however, does not, but you decide that part of the conversation can wait until later. And since she asked (uncharacteristically nice) if you could come and get her, you decide right away that you will.

"Alright, I'll come pick you up. What hospital are you at?"

* * *

 

You don't ask her about the conversation with the officer you assume was McNally right away. Not when she's paler than usual, disoriented from the oxy and looks terribly exhausted. You simply walk out to your car and open the passenger door for her. A sting of expletives follow as she struggles with the seatbelt, but just as you're about to ask if she needs help it clicks into place.

"Is your flatmate home?" you ask as you drive out from the parking lot.

"No, night shift," Gail mumbles, her head resting against the car door.

"Okay, well.. the nurses said you should preferably not be alone until the oxy has worn off.."

You hesitate a little before you ask her, you've only known each other for a short while and you know she's a very private person which in a weird way makes your upcoming question feel kind of intrusive. In a backwards way.

"..are you okay with staying at my place tonight? Or I could drive you someplace else, if you want. Parents? Friends?"

She doesn't answer right away, just groans loudly at the mention of parents. You're not too surprised, the surname Peck has popped up in various work-related conversations for as long as you've been in Toronto and from what you've heard, Superintendent Peck is not the person you go to for comfort when your wrist is burning and your mind is addled with drugs.

"Was that a no? Yes?"

In the corner of your eye you see that she turns to look at you, but you keep your eyes on the traffic.

"A no. To the parents. I'd rather hang out at your place, Lunchbox," she mutters before resting her head against the car door again. The dark tone of her voice does nothing to ease the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach, even though you're fairly sure that it was brought on by the mention of her parents rather than the thought of hanging out with you for an extended amount of time.

Two hours later and you still haven't figured out what the elephant had to do with anything. What you do know is that it took a great deal of self control not to wrap Gail up in a big hug when she, after a cup of tea and a sandwich, told you about her talk with McNally. Her determination to not let the tears in her eyes start falling was nearly tangible, as was the hurt in her voice. All you wanted to to was to curl up against her and whisper soothing words, but you stayed put on the other end of your couch, fearing that holding her might be a fatal overstep of invisible boundaries, especially considering how fragile she is right now.

When she starts dozing off you head upstairs to grab some clothes for her to sleep in. Luckily, you bought a new pack of toothbrushes last time you went grocery shopping, and you can't help but picking the bright pink one, only because you're quite sure that Gail will have a lot of angry opinions about that specific color.

"Hey, Gail? Here's pyjamas and a toothbrush. The bathroom is upstairs to the left and the blue towel on the rack is clean."

She mumbles something inaudible and rubs her eyes before stumbling up the stairs. She must've nodded off while you were upstairs, the way she moves resembles a newly awakened zombie, but way prettier. As soon as you've finished that thought you curse inwardly and head over to the kitchen to put away the dishes just to take your mind off certain things.

Gail exits the bathroom right as you walk up the stairs. Your sweatpants are a little long on her, but seeing her in your clothes has your heart beating a mile a minute. Whatever you was going to tell her gets abruptly erased from your brain.

"Star Wars is so cool," she says thoughtfully, giving the t-shirt she's borrowed an affectionate look.

"But we have to talk about the color of the toothbrush, Lunchbox. Pink. Atrocious," she huffs with an offended frown.

When you don't answer right away she stares at you, curiously, until your brain catches up with reality. You push your glasses up your nose and blink at her, not quite capable of putting together a sentence.

"Huh? Right. Yeah. Umm, the bedroom is in here.." you gesture to the half-open door to the right "..and, eh, I'm just gonna grab a few things and then I'll.. go sleep on the couch," you finish lamely.

"Holls, don't be silly, I'm not gonna kick you out of your own bed. But I might steal your covers. What side do you sleep on?" Gail asks.

"Umm, the middle.." you say timidly, and she just chuckles in response before stretching out on the right side of the bed.

"Oh, right. I'm just gonna.." your voice trails of and you gesture vaguely towards the t-shirt and sweatpants hanging off a chair and then at the bathroom door.

"Mmmh," Gail mumbles while wiggling around and making herself comfortable.

The cold water splashing onto your face really only highlights the fact that your cheeks are burning.

This is so not good, in fact it's a disaster. A random workplace accident later and now Gail is in your home, in your bed, looking devastatingly good in your ratty old Return of The Jedi t-shirt. Plus, she called you Holls.

How did this happen? And what have you done to upset the universe?

You glare at your reflection in the mirror, replaying the last couple of weeks in your head. If you're being honest with yourself you knew you were fucked the second she stared you down in the woods and called you Lunchbox, followed by a string of insults and, later on, a surprisingly heartfelt conversation. But it should have stopped there. Except it didn't.

She demanded you exchange numbers, and a week and a half later you tagged along with her to a wedding, ending the night with a "things straight girls say"-tirade followed by a frustratingly brief kiss in a coat closet and a shitty lie about going dancing. And since then it's only gotten worse.

You'd think that your sometimes lack of social skills and tendency to break out into the most random rants about whatever happens to be on your mind would have scared her off by now, but no. It's the opposite. And you have no idea how to handle it.

On one hand you feel like you're on the road towards a potentially great friendship – despite your differences you and Gail get along ridiculously well.  
On the other hand, you've replayed that brief kiss over and over and over again, and the only conclusion you've come to is that you want more of the same thing. So, in short – you're fucked.

The lamp on the left hand bedside table is still on when you return, and there's a Gail-shaped lump under the duvet to the right. You try to be as quiet as possible, you're not sure if she's sleeping, at least not until she mumbles "Lunchbox, 'm still awake". Then she starts telling you about when she was eleven and her brother introduced her to the Star Wars universe, a conversation that lasts until both of you drift off to sleep.

* * *

 

It's still dark outside when you wake up, a narrow ray of light from the streetlamp outside sneaking through a gap in the curtains. First you think you've woken up because Gail, true to her promise might have hogged the covers, but then you realize that you're far from freezing, quite the opposite in fact. You also realize that you've left your spot on the left side of the bed and shifted more towards the middle. The neon green numbers on your alarm clock cuts through the darkness. 04:52. Almost two hours of sleep left before the thing will start beeping.

As your brain slowly retracts from sleep you become more and more aware of the exact source of warmth, and it makes your breath hitch and you skin buzz pleasantly. Gail is curled up on her side next to you, her non-injured arm wrapped around your waist and one of her legs touching yours. Her injured hand is tucked safely under her chin, close to, but not under her body, and she mumbles quietly in her sleep.

Shit.

If you weren't awake before, you sure as hell are awake now. It's like every nerve ending in your body has been alerted, your heart is pounding at least 180 times per minute and you feel like you're gonna implode at any second.

Your first thought is to try and move away a little, but the risk of waking her seems to big. Instead you stay put, trying to calm your heartbeat and desperately ignore the warmth radiating from her. It's easier thought than done though, and despite your efforts, the warmth slowly seeps through your blood stream, waking every single butterfly inside of you.

After a few, painfully long minutes your nervous system finally begins to settle down again, and you close your eyes, desperate for more sleep. But, it turns out the universe isn done torturing you yet. Gail stirs in her sleep, muttering something incoherent, and scoots even closer. She's wrapping her arm tighter around you, and no matter how hard you try not to think about it, you cannot ignore the soft breast now touching the side of your ribcage or her left leg flung over yours. The thin layers of cotton separating her skin from yours does absolutely nothing to ease the frustration. It's painful how much you want to touch her, scoot down a little so that you can kiss her. But you don't, 'cause that would be creepy and intrusive and wrong in so many ways.

* * *

 

You must have fallen asleep again at some point, because the next time you open your eyes everything is much brighter. You yawn and shuffle around a little, enjoying the fresh scent of shampoo invading your nostrils and wait?! What? Why are your vision clouded by soft, blonde (deliciously smelling) tousled hair?

Once again your brain does a re-start and you scramble to sit upright, snatching away the arm that was wrapped around Gail's waist a second ago.

You have no idea what to say as she sits up too, albeit in a much less hurried way. She observes you, doesn't say anything and your nervous system goes into overdrive again.

"I'm sorry I.. didn't mean to wake you, I mean, or.. I just, slept.. I wasn't aware.. I'm.. sorry?" you stutter while your gaze shifts between the clocks, the duvet, the window and the doorway. You're looking anywhere but at her.

"Relax, Lunchbox. It's not like you were drooling in my hair or something. I would have pushed you away if that was the case," Gail snickers.

"Oh, right," you say, silently cursing the blush you feel is creeping onto your cheeks, before you scurry out of bead and head for the bathroom.  
A long, cold shower is in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo.. I sorta like the idea that Holly, while confident in professional settings can get kind of insecure sometimes when she's not at work (which I think has showed a bit on screen too) so I'm trying to write her that way.
> 
> Thoughts?


	9. Chapter 9

It's saturday, it's freezing outside, and today Toronto is blessed with the first snowfall of the season. Which means that after a quick trip to the gym and the grocery store, you're perfectly content with curling up on your couch in a warm sweater and fluffy socks.

You like being outdoors, and having company, it's just that it's been a particularly stressful week with two final court hearings, and what looks more and more like a triple murder on top of that. So today you're going through a well-tested method of emptying your brain – video games.

Except it's not really working.

Sure, the immediate thoughts of the cases you're working on are gone once the familiarly pixelated world of Hyrule shows up on your tv. The problem is that the playing itself leads your thoughts off in other directions. Namely the direction of a cranky, video-game playing police officer that you haven't seen in over a week. You grabbed lunch together the week after the grow-op incident (also known as the cold shower-inducing Get Your Shit Together Holly Stewart-incident) but that was last wednesday and your continuous texting back and forth aside, you haven't seen her in.. ten days now. And as much as you berate yourself for it, you miss hanging out with her.

You pause the game and pick up the phone. Her last message was from late yesterday night and you had already been asleep and not responded to it. Exactly what were you supposed to reply to

**[Lunchbx pleas dont ever drink vodka and bacon. Just no.]**

anyway? Plus replying when you woke up had been pretty useless seeing as Gail based on the contents of the text message probably would have been hungover as hell and/or sleeping at 8 am. But it's afternoon now so she's gotta be somewhat awake now, right? You begin typing out a message, questioning both her choice of drinks last night and her current state of feeling, but before you have finished it your phone starts buzzing and the text message screen gets replaced by a snapshot of a frowning Gail holding a baseball helmet and bat.

"Yes this is Lunchbox," you answer.

"I feel awful," Gail groans in response. "I am never, ever doing shots with meat in them again. Ever."

"I support that decision. So.. I take it you hade a good time drinking with the boys last night?"

She sighs like the weight of the world was balanced on top of her head. "Epstein guilted me into it. It was alright."

"Sooo, what are you up to this fine afternoon then, officer?" you chirp back.

"Have you met Price? Tiny redheaded creature, very bright-eyed, cheerful and horribly annoying."

"Not that I can recall, no."

"Good for you."

She's silent for a little while but before you come up with anything to say she continues.

"Anyways – said tiny creature has currently invaded Casa Peckstein-Diaz, since the dumb half of Peckstein suffers from a severe lack of judgement and is currently dating the annoying thing in question. And let me tell you one thing, Lunchbox – listening to her lovesick babbling while being this hungover does not a happy Gail make. And Chris ate all the food," she adds as an afterthought, and you can practically hear her pouting.

"You could come over to my place," you offer. "I'm having one of those lazy indoors days, and I'm gonna make dinner soon. Do you like chicken stir-fry? And I think I have a bag of cheese puffs somewhere, I don't really like them but my friend Rachel left them after a movie night."

"Holly, I would gladly spend the rest of the day in the morgue to get away from Chloe. Your place sounds like heaven. And I eat anything, as long as it's not too healthy or contains tomatoes. See you in twenty," she says and abruptly hangs up. You shake your head and return to your game for another couple of minutes. Then you hit pause and return to the kitchen, something tells you that having the food underway when Gail gets here is a good idea.

The stir-fry is done before Gail arrives, and as you wash the knives and cutting board you glance at your reflection in the window. Maybe you should change. Or at least fix the messy bun your hair has been stuck in since last night.

Or not, because how you look when having a lazy day in with a  _friend_  is not relevant, alright brain? Alright.

* * *

 

Gail arrives, paler than usual and with her personal imaginative storm cloud in tow a few minutes later and promptly cracks up at the sight of your knitted, rainbow-colored socks. Then she proceeds to comment on your choice of video game but her snark is not as biting as usual. She chalks it up to lack of energy, and soon the two of you are seated by your kitchen island where Gail practically inhales two large helpings of food. A random thought flies through your brain, about how nice it is that Gail has such an affinity for food, especially the less healthy kind. It's a nice change from your other friends – most of them have embraced the current trend of eating lots of kale and shunning most carbs like they are the plague, which makes any sort of dining a rather complicated and dull experience.

Gail is different from anyone else you know, and you like that. More than you should.

"But seriously Holly, what's up with the Nintendo craze? Not that I don't appreciate you doing something that's not sciency but still nerdy, but where did this come from?"

She's slouching on your couch, feet on the coffee table, absentmindedly tossing a game cartridge back and forth between her hands. It's the 007 one, and you've never really liked that game no matter how hyped it was when you were in high school. In fact, you're pretty sure that game belongs to your brother. Whatever.

"Oh, it's a habit from when I was in pre-med. I simply couldn't read for fun during those years, the amount of required reading was already too much, so I brought my old game consoles along to have something to take my mind off things, and I still play for fun sometimes when I have a lot on my mind," you explain.

She doesn't say anything, which feels a little odd considering the thoughtful way she looks at you. It makes you uncomfortable in a comfortable way, which of course is a complete oxymoron and therefore weirdly suitable for the occasion.

"Here, pick your poison," you say and hand her a bunch of cartridges, hoping that she's gonna pick something that's not the Goldeneye game. If you're honest with yourself, your dislike for it may have something to do with a certain brother always beating you at it and you'd feel way better if you could challenge Gail at a game you know you're good at.

The second she picks Mario Kart you know you're safe. You rule that game, in fact, you're pretty sure that you have a diploma somewhere that says "Holly Stewart – Mario Kart Champion 2002" that your college roomie gave you after a 36 games long winning streak. Without using the shortcuts, of course.

Gail isn't bad, she actually beats you in two races. It's just that you're better. And when she causes Toad to majestically fly off of Rainbow Road, blaming it all on Chris since he's the reason for her hangover you decide that it's time for a change of entertainment. You head over to the kitchen, retrieving Rachel's forgotten cheese puffs, two bottles of coke and a bag of peanut M&Ms.

"Wanna watch a movie?" you call out.

"Yeah, why not," she shouts from the couch.

She practically bounces off the couch when you return balancing the bowls of snacks, immediately reaching out for the cheese puffs. You sit down in the other end, grabbing a handful of the M&Ms.

Gail hums happily when she leans back in the couch, and looks over at you.

"You, my friend, are definitely not as sucky as most people are," she says, and you're so taken aback by the compliment that you just laugh, looking her right in the eyes and hoping that she understands what you're not saying, and what your laughter means even though you're not sure of exactly what that is yourself.

"Was that Gail Peck paying me a compliment?" you ask, and she tries to shrug it off, looking everywhere but at you, but you can see the way her cheeks are flushing.

"Lunchbox, you wanna watch a movie or what," she snaps, and you smile and open up Netflix.

She picks Juno "because not all tiny canadians are annoying", and it takes you a good ten seconds before you get the connection between Ellen Page and Dov's allegedly annoying girlfriend. Somewhere before the adoptive father turns out to be an immature creep Gail falls asleep, she's snoring lightly and you cannot bring yourself to wake her, even when the movie ends. Instead you cover her sleeping form with a blanket and writes a note saying that you didn't want to wake her up and that she may stay over if she wants to. You put it next to her phone on the coffee table.

Before you head up the stairs to your bedroom, you push back the stray lock of hair that has fallen in her face. She stirs then, and mumbles something and you curse yourself inwardly for waking her, but then she yawns and burrows her head in the couch pillow, promptly going back to sleep.

You make it three steps up your staircase before you stop and turn and just look at her, curled up on your couch. You would give almost anything to have her curled up next to you in bed instead, the mere memories are enough to send sparks through your spine. But you're not willing to risk your friendship, not the first real good friend you've made in how many years?

No. You won't. And you are not a creep who watches the person you undoubtedly have a crush on sleep either, so you turn away, walk up the rest of the stairs.

Your bed has never felt so unnecessarily big.

* * *

 

She's still on the couch when you come downstairs the next morning, and with the promise of coffee and donuts you manage to drag her out into the snowy city for breakfast. It's freezing, but the sun's out and Toronto is glistening. She goes home by midday, having to "mentally prepare herself for the monthly Peck Family Dinner later in the day", an event she tells you of with the enthusiasm of an innocent person heading for death row.

You ask her to text you afterwards so that you'll know if she survives.


	10. Chapter 10

_"Met any nice girls lately?"_

_"Met any nice girls lately?"_

_"Met any nice girls lately?"_

Her words echo in your head as you toss and turn and hate yourself.

"Yeah, you."

Two words.

You should have just said them. You wanted to say them. But you didn't.

And let's be real here – there's not a chance in the world that you, nervous rambler extraordinaire, would have been able to tell Gail that you liked her as more than a friend with only two words. Anything other than a word vomit of epic proportions would have been extremely out of character for you. Plus, you didn't say anything, at least not anything you wanted to say.

What did you do? You blurted out something about medieval archers for Merlin's sake. Ugh. No wonder you're single.

You force your eyes shut and immediately bits and pieces of your evening starts replaying in your head.

Gail, doing a very unique imitation of a sports announcer when you beat the two random cops at The Penny in pool.

Gail, telling you random stories of her years at 15, most of them ending with Dov, Chris or both of them in some sort of trouble.

Gail, shyly asking if you could hang out at your place for a while, not really wanting to go back to the frat-flat quite yet.

You, walking into a streetlight while trying to explain an article about quarks that you'd spent your entire lunch break reading, which by the way was very far from your usual scientific readings. You had nothing else to read, okay. And Gail was somewhere else and not available for lunch break companionship.

Plus there was something strangely cute about mini-miniscule particles called strange quarks and charm quarks, and that topic lead you headfirst into a ramble about the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva that you had read about like ten years ago after a friend had talked you into reading that awful book Angels & Demons.

Then, bam! Streetlight – meet Holly Stewart.

And she giggled, and even though you pouted quite a bit for good measure, nothing hurt. How could it, when she was laughing at you, but in the sweetest way you'd ever been laughed at?

You open your eyes and stare at the roof above you, wanting to fall asleep but that's a hard thing to accomplish when your thoughts are racing at 200 kilometers per hour. Which, by the way, is a saying and not an accurate scientific fact.

A few days ago you'd been texting back and forth with Rachel, who was persistently questioning you about your "new bestie slash inappropriate crush". You can recreate the words on the screen by heart.

**[..but what's interesting is that it doesn't** **_feel_ ** **awkward. I'm not awkward, at least not compared to how I can be, you know how I can be. Fine, I wouldn't exactly mind kissing her, or.. well.. you know. But us hanging out? It's great.]**

**[Just make sure you don't get hurt. Also, Lisa says hi, frowns at you for choosing overtime work over drinks and says that I should tell you to get over yourself and that she knows someone who's actually into girls that she thinks you'd like.]**

**[Hi Lisa! :) ]**

And now this tentative friendship with Gail has entered the uncomfortable realm of awkward. Splendid. You can hear their voices in your head already. Rachel being reasoning and somewhat comforting, Lisa telling you to get over yourself and stop falling for straight girls.

The best plan of action is probably to ignore them, and avoid Gail. At least for a couple of days. You can just bury yourself in work.. it's not like you haven't done that one before.

* * *

 

You can't read her. She's chewing on her straw like her life depended on it but you can't tell if she's bothered by the fact that you're meeting someone or if she's just being Gail. And you don't have any time left to think it over, since your "someone" just walked though the door.

"Thanks for the drink," you say and walk away, your back turned on Gail so quick that you can't make out the words in her mumbled reply. But you feel her eyes on you for the rest of the evening.

Lisa was right, your blind date – Amelia, is someone you'd probably like. If it wasn't for the fact that you're crushing hard on a snarky cop and Amelia is not the cop in question. She's an online editor for the Toronto Star, an avid fan of the Blue Jays and the Leafs and enjoys painting and mountain biking in her spare time. You would make a great match – two sorta nerdy, sometimes outdoorsy types, but as the night goes on you feel increasingly bad for playing along. It's not that you don't enjoy talking to her, you honestly do. It's just that you know this has zero chance of going anywhere until you get over Gail.

The second you think that you hear Lisa's voice in your head "get under someone else", but that's not your preferred way of handling these kinds of situations. The risk of hurting someone involved is usually to big.

"This has been great but I have an early start tomorrow so.. I better get going," Amelia says.

"Right, of course. I should leave too, " you say and start putting your jacket on. You want to throw a last glance at Gail, just to see if she's still staring at you or if she's too drunk, but you would feel rude for doing so. Instead you follow Amelia out.

There are no cabs outside so you decide to share one since you both live in the same direction. While waiting for the cab to arrive the two of you are slowly surrounded by an unavoidable and uncomfortable silence, and both of you decide to break it at the exact same time.

"Look.."

"Listen.."

Amelia laughs and you look down and kick a small gravel with your right foot.

"You go first," you say, looking at her again and calmly watch her fidget for a second.

"Alright. Uhm.. I don't know if Lisa told you, but I had a really rough breakup recently and, well.. I'm nowhere near ready to start dating again. I just thought you should know because I honestly had a good time, but I can't see this going anywhere right now."

The sudden relief that rushes through you feels like taking a deep breath after swimming under water for too long. It's followed by a hint of compassion for Amelia, but you can't help being glad she's not feeling it either.

"Oh. That's alright, tonight was great but I'm not exactly emotionally available right now either," you say apologetically.

She smiles at you then, and when the cab arrives a few minutes later you're laughing and swapping stories about how Lisa always wants to meddle with other peoples love lives.

Your place is closer and when you've paid your share of the fare and are about to say goodbye Amelia interrupts you.

"Thanks for tonight Holly, and.. it's probably not my place to ask you about this, but the blonde that was staring at you for most of the night, you should probably just woman up and ask her out. I'm not easily scared but if you go on any more blind dates and she knows about it, I have a feeling things might get ugly."

* * *

 

Once again you have trouble sleeping. Because of course your brain would spin into overdrive after Amelia's quiet observation.

What if Gail's not just fiercely possessive of her friends.

What if she actually feels something more. Granted she might not, and if she does she may not want to act upon it but you fall asleep while rewinding the coat closet over and over again, and the more times you do it, the more you focus on the look in her eyes when you got up and left.

Maybe it meant something.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bonus! I have argued with myself a gazillion times over whether or not to include the first observation room kiss, since the Gail chapters skipped (not so) straight from the Penny to the Great Hair Massacre of 2014 (I totally headcanon Holly, and at a later point Gail too, referring to the event as that) and I feel that it would be strange to write that scene without Gail's POV, since Holly's the one rambling and thus we already know a bit more about what she's thinking._   
>  _Enough with the rant – I decided to write the scene anyway, and it will be from both girls' perspective. Sorry if it got messy._

There's something strangely adorable about the way Holly, who is easily the smartest person you've ever met, is incapable of grasping the fairly well-known concept of being a cop equals doing dangerous stuff on the job. You try your best to rid your voice of any possible sarcasm as you correct her, and you think you managed quite well, for being you.

"Oh.. okay. Well, fine.." she stutters, pushing back a lock of hair and pushing her glasses askew in the process. She doesn't straighten them, they remain adorably off-centered. Instead she sets off into another ramble about the girl she was with last night at The Penny.

If you hadn't been so in shock about the whole situation, you would have interrupted her halfway through her first sentence. The last thing you wanna hear about is her and that stupid "someone". Instead you just stand there blinking at her, somewhat confused. The itchy feeling from last night stings under your skin again. Though it really only takes two seconds or so for the itch to transform into a weirdly pleasant bubbly sensation instead.

".. it was a stupid set-up.."

 _Yes, yes it was!_  your inner voice loudly agrees and you decide that interrupting her is no longer relevant.

".. we tell each other stuff, right?" and the way she smiles at you right then, it's short but it has the same effect on your brain as R2 stopping the garbage crusher on the original Death Star had on.. well.. the garbage crusher and the persons in it.

Everything goes blank and eerily silent for a second, and then a loud cheer. In your head, that is. There's nothing Star Wars about 15 Division, even though this particular room is kinda dark and Death Star-y. Nevermind.

Stuff makes sense now, perfect sense. A part of your brain is yelling at the rest of it for not realizing sooner, but the rest of your brain is still high on that smile, Holly's smile – that hopeful, gorgeous, uncontrollable smile.

You look at her lips, they're still moving. Rapidly firing off words that your brain is too fuzzy to register properly. Her hands are flailing, accentuating said words. You dare a look in her eyes and you see it, see the nervousness, the care, the worry of maybe having lost something great before it even begun. It should freak you out but it doesn't.

Your gaze moves back to her lips, and really, honestly, what else could you do?

It's soft despite the rush of it, it's soothing like walking in to a quiet room after hours spent working barriers at whatever loud and noisy demonstration. Only a million times better.

Her being that inch or so taller makes her lean down a little when she kisses you back and maybe you've never properly thought about the possibility of you being attracted to her before, but you're sure as hell not gonna argue about it now.

How to turn Gail Peck into a puddle of jelly 101 – a lecture by Dr. Holly Stewart.

It's a good thing you pull back when you do, 'cause something in your knees are definitely on its way to stop working properly.

_"Oh my god."_

You're not sure if you actually say the words out loud, but you think them. Bold red  _flashing-in-front-of-your-eyes-letters_  think them. Your breathing is choppy but your heart is surprisingly not racing, more like pounding heavily, forcing around more blood than usual with each beat and you have a hard time holding her gaze. Not that you should have, the way she looks at you, combined with the determination with which she kissed you back leaves no doubts of how she feels about this sudden development of your friendship.

"I'm sorry, y-you just had to stop talking."

Her reply is a whisper, as if she's afraid a loud noise might ruin this fragile new thing.

"I won't say another word."

You're no fan of the whole butterflies thing, it's one hell of a mushy metaphor, but there's no other way to describe how you're feeling as you both lean in again. Right before her lips brushes yours again you hear, or feel (you're not quite sure) Holly gasp quietly, a broken fluttery intake of breath, and just like that the butterflies are gone, but not forgotten. They just got abruptly replaced but a jolt of heat coursing through your spine and straight into your lower abdomen.

Not switching teams, right. Your therapist will laugh her ass off at this recent development.

* * *

 

She's unharmed, at least physically, and alive. Safe? Maybe not, the footsteps and voices on the other side of the door speak of officers getting ready to hit the streets, setting out to find the lunatic who shot at her mere hours ago. Soon, she'll be out there again and you know you should worry, and you will. But not right now.

Right now you're busy.

You didn't plan for this to happen. Honestly. All you wanted was to see her, take a minute and tell her your concerns, ask her to call you when all this madness is done and over with. Maybe when she'd call, if she'd call, you'd invite her over for takeout and a movie unless it'd been to late.

Maybe that will happen, later. But not right now.

After the initial rush and her stuttered excuse for kissing you so abruptly both of you slowed down. You cherished the stillness and calm of simply kissing, softly, feeling her respond to every tiny touch so blissfully alive and well and not in the hospital with bullets in her body.

The same body who after a little while burst into movement and backed you up against a wall, thus shifting this impromptu make out-session into a whole other gear.

And that's where you are now. Gail's pinning you to the wall with her hips and the way her lips move against yours, the way her tongue is soft and assertive at the same time has erased all the doubts that's been plaguing you lately. She wants you, and the fear of what's waiting for her the second she steps out of this room aside, you're so relieved at that knowledge that you don't know if you wanna laugh or cry. So you do neither. Instead you keep kissing her, letting your fingertips stroke her jaw, her neck, drift down along the collar of her shirt to where the kevlar vest stops you.

Suddenly you find yourself not knowing where to put your hands next. Normally you'd head for her hips, but you can't. There's a duty belt with a gun, a baton, a flashlight, a radio in the way. You feel your hands flailing awkwardly until you settle for a little higher, on the lower part of her ribs. The rough material of her vest is annoying, you want to touch her and it's in the way, but you're grateful for it all the same.

Gail doesn't seem to notice the moments of hesitation, she's busy sneaking a hand under your jacket and caressing your lower back causing you to moan and break the kiss gasping for air.

She looks down then, breathing heavily and leaning her forehead against yours. Your gaze follow hers downward as you feel your body relax against the concrete wall. Her right hand has left the small of your back and now she's slowly tangling her fingers with your left hand.

You lean down and give her lips a swift peck, not unlike the kiss you shared at the wedding, before you move to the right and lean your head against her shoulder. You probably look incredibly awkward doing so, especially since you're a little bit taller than her, but you need to be close to her, to just be still, together for a moment.

Silent seconds float by as you try to focus on the sound of her breathing going back to normal and not on the rest of the world rushing by outside the door, until she speaks to you with a tiny, slightly concerned voice.

"Holly, are you gonna kiss my neck?"

The question confuses you a little, so you lift your head and stand up straight, meeting her unreadable gaze. You reach up to straighten your glasses, it's usually just a nervous habit, but this time they're really lopsided, which doesn't surprise you at all, considering.

"Umm.. I don't know, I mean.."

It's too dark in the room for you to see if she's blushing, but her body language tells you that she is.

"You can't!" she blurts out. "I mean you can, I want.. but not.. I have to work and," she gives up the battle with words with an exasperated sigh, looking everywhere but right at you. You force away the smile threatening to break free, and files away a mental note consisting of  _"Gail+neck kisses=not in public/almost public= probably good to know"_.

"Gail," you say softly, stroking her cheek with the hand she's not grasping.

"Mmmh?" she huffs, still avoiding your gaze.

"I can kiss your neck some other time, somewhere more private and less precinct-y, if you want me to. But you're right. Now is not the time. You have a scumbag to catch and I have a cop to worry about."

She looks at you, nodding, and you lean in for a final soft kiss before she backs away.

"I should probably, umm.." she stutters, pointing awkwardly at the door.

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea. You police officers gossip like crazy," you laugh. "I'll give you a headstart. But Gail?"

"Yeah," she says, slowly untangling your fingers.

"Be careful, okay? Try to not get shot at again. And please text me or call when you get off shift. Even if it's late."

She gives you a stern nod before slipping out the door.

You lean back against the wall, quickly replaying the events of the last five or so minutes in your head while counting to twenty. It's hard to focus since all your brain wants to do is flash " _SHE KISSED YOU!_ " in bright bold letters in front of your eyes over and over again.

She kissed you. You kissed her. She has to work. She will call you. Later. You will have to deal with whatever happens after that as it comes. Do not overthink, Holly Stewart.

Before you step out you take a second to inspect yourself in the wrong side of the one way mirror. You straighten your jacket, make sure your hair isn't suspiciously messy and force away most of the smile that is currently etched on your face.

The first thing you're met with when you step out in the brightly lit corridor is Officer Shaw, talking to Gail. Fantastic.

You greet him with a "Hi!" and an admittedly dorky wave before quickly walking in the opposite direction of where Gail is going.

An exasperated shout of "The courier was sick, Oliver!" bounces off the walls in the corridor as you head towards the main entrance, and you have a nagging feeling that even if the very perceptive Officer Shaw wasn't suspicious of the two of you exiting the observation room right after each other before, he probably is now. But you also know that he is one of the few colleagues that Gail really likes, and that the affection is mutual. Hopefully he won't interrogate her about it.

* * *

 

It's about an hour later when you get a text from her.

**[Oliver may or may not have given me a slightly awkward and thinly veiled reversed coming out-speech earlier, and then tried to make it all about him and Celery.]**

Before you can reply you get another message.

**[So far so good at the whole "do not get shot at again"-thing by the way. Call you later.]**

* * *

 

You've finished up your work for the day and are about to get in the car to head home when you remember. The file. Your crappy excuse. Carelessly flung on the table in the observation room over at 15. And even though you know it's your own worries doing the talking – the part of you that is aching to see Gail again, to know that she's still alive and not out risking her life when a madman's on the loose, you talk yourself into driving over to 15 to get the file. That's the responsible thing to do, right? Gail might not even be there, for all you know she's out on patrol.

Except she isn't, not yet. Her blonde ponytail is like a magnet to your eyes, you find her right away, talking to Diaz and her brother, and no matter how hard the sensible part of your brain is chanting "just say hi as you walk past her, do not stop, just go get the file, she's busy and working and her friends and coworkers are everywhere" the part of your brain that is falling for her (which is pretty much all of your brain to be honest) refuse to listen.

Bad decision. Indeed.

Hot, angry tears are stinging in the corners of your eyes as you drive back to the morgue, stupid file safely retrieved from the observation room. What if you messed it all up now? You feel like a clumsy elephant trying to make its way out of a porcelain store and failing miserably. The seconds you were left standing in the middle of 15, watching her walk away is replaying in your head over and over and over again. The horrible sinking feeling in your stomach won't go away. Fuck.


End file.
